Finding Potter
by shilo1364
Summary: *Hogwarts 8th year AU* When returning 8th year Draco Malfoy spins the bottle under duress and gets Harry Potter, he thinks things couldn't get any worse. But that was before Harry disappeared. Draco, bereft and adrift, sets out to find himself, and in the process finds much more than he expected. A strange, rather angsty one-shot with a sweet ending. One-shot, COMPLETE
Draco groaned as Blaise propelled him bodily into the circle of 8th years. "Remind me why I'm friends with you, again?"

Blaise grinned, pressing an empty beer bottle into his hand. "Spin, Draco."

Draco spun. He watched the tip as it slowed, detached amusement spiraling quickly into mounting horror. He willed it to keep moving as it slowly wobbled to a stop.

Potter looked up at him from across the circle, an unreadable expression in his too-green eyes.

Blaise smirked. "Off you go, then. Into the closet. We'll fetch you when your seven minutes are up."

Draco paled. "What?"

Pansy giggled. _Giggled._ "It's just a kiss, Draco."

Potter rolled his eyes, already hefting himself to his feet. "Come _on_ Draco."

Draco drew himself up haughtily. "Fine. But I would like it noted that I do this under duress." He sniffed, took Harry's arm, and tugged him toward the closet, back ramrod straight.

Harry followed meekly, but the muscles of his arm were hard and rigid, and when Draco looked down, confused, he saw that Harry's hands were clenched into fists.

He tugged Harry into the closet, and Harry stumbled. "Clumsy, Potter," Draco chided, but his heart wasn't in it. He shut the door, wincing at the quiet snick of the latch sliding into place, and then turned. He braced himself against the door and closed his eyes, waiting. After a few moments, he opened one eye. "Well?" he asked, arching a brow. "I'm waiting, Potter."

Harry glared at him. His eyes were harder than Draco had ever seen them, glinting dangerously. He looked furious. Draco swallowed.

"Duress?" Potter snarled.

Draco frowned. "Yes, Potter. It means – "

"I know bloody well what it means, you insufferable git."

"…well?"

"Well what?" Potter spat.

Draco stared at him. Perhaps the rumors of post-war brain damage were true. "The reason we're both in here?" he tried.

Potter growled, startling him. "Just… forget it, Draco." He scrubbed a hand through his messy hair, mussing it further. "I forfeit. Now go gloat to everyone how you won. It's what you do best."

Draco stared at him. "But – "

"I don't bloody well want you 'under duress,' alright? Now just go, Draco. Please?" His voice broke. Which did strange and not-altogether-unpleasant things to Draco's insides.

Draco frowned. _That almost sounds like he wants me, otherwise._ "But… what will I tell the others?"

Potter scrubbed both hands through his hair and tugged viciously. "I… tell them whatever the hell you want, Draco." He laughed bitterly. "Tell them the truth, yeah? That I disgust you. That you wouldn't be caught dead with someone like me." His voice carried an odd undercurrent that sounded suspiciously like hurt.

"Potter…"

"Go!" Draco drew back from the force of Potter's glare. He opened his mouth to say – well, he didn't know what he would say, actually – and Potter's lips thinned. He dropped his hand to hover over his wand. "Get. Out. Now."

Draco got out. His heart was pounding and his blood was fizzing. He was terrified. And alive. He closed his eyes, savoring the life he felt coursing through him. It had been _ages_ since he'd felt so alive. He turned back to share the adrenaline rush with Potter – but Potter was gone. The closet stood empty.

Draco frowned. He hadn't felt Potter pass him. Even if he had that bloody invisibility cloak, Potter would have had to brush past him. Draco shrugged. Potter would have to turn up sometime.

Only he didn't. He didn't show up for dinner. Nor to classes the next day, or the day after that. He'd just…vanished.

The knowing looks Pansy and Blaise had been shooting him turned speculative. Weasley and Granger's looks went from angry to worried.

And still Harry didn't show.

Draco tried to hold on to that spark of life, but it fizzled and died soon enough. And nothing he did could bring it back. He held out hope that Harry would turn up, spitting curses at Draco as usual, and bring it back.

That hope died the day Draco walked out the gates of Hogwarts one last time, along with the rest of the 8th years. He didn't look back. There was nothing for him there. Not anymore.

He wandered aimlessly, for a time, sending Pansy and Blaise postcards – yet another brilliant muggle invention – from Egypt, Russia, Japan, Brazil, Canada. They sent him photos of their wedding, their children. They begged him to come home, to England. He wrote back, complimenting them on their lovely children, politely refusing their invitations. When he grew tired of waking in a different bed every morning, eating alone in a different café every evening, he stopped running.

Over several bottles of the local wine, in a forgettable hotel in a town he couldn't recall the name of, he faced the truth. He'd been searching for Harry. And in all that time, all those towns, all those faces… he'd never found him. He finally admitted to himself that he wasn't _going_ to find him. It was the first time he could remember crying over someone else. He vowed it would be the last.

He settled down, on the outskirts of a tiny village in the middle of nowhere, halfway across the world from the closet where he could now admit he had left his heart. He took up gardening, struck up friendships with the local children as he patched their scraped knees, mended their broken bones, and healed their sick pets. He was regarded as eccentric, but harmless, and he found that he liked it. He'd had enough of infamy.

He stumbled into ceramics quite by accident, but he discovered that he had a talent for it, of all things. He'd needed a name, when he first arrived, and he wanted nothing to do with his old one. He'd settled on Peter, because it amused him. And perhaps because he had a bit of a masochistic streak, after all, like Pansy had always claimed. But once word got out that he was skilled with a potter's wheel, well… They called him Potter. Of course they did. And nothing would dissuade them. Eventually he stopped trying – though he never stopped flinching when addressed.

And then, one day, as he was headed home from market, after making his weekly purchases – a bit of cheese, a loaf of bread, some interesting dye for a glaze he wanted to experiment with – he heard someone call him.

"Potter!"

That wasn't unusual – the children still came to him to mend their scrapes and pets, though now they brought their mother's pots too – and he recognized the child. He saw someone jerk upright, at the corner of his eye, but he was too busy juggling his baskets, trying not to jostle anyone, to notice.

"Potter!" the boy yelled again. Draco turned, bemused as always when he came face to face with a handful of the ragamuffins. He didn't know why they gravitated to him, but he didn't mind. He set his baskets down, knelt down to dig through them. He pulled out a packet of sweets and handed them round.

"Now," he said, once the children were all happily sucking their sweets, "what can I do for you?"

The boy who'd called out to him held out a clay doll. It was missing an arm. "Sissy's doll broke," he said seriously. "Can you fix it, Potter?"

Draco bit down hard on his lip to keep the smile from escaping. He tried to keep his voice as serious as the boy's. "Let me see." He pursed his lips studying the damage. "Yes, I believe I can." He turned to the tiny girl peeking out from behind her brother, eyes wide and worried. "May I take her home with me tonight, Sissy? I'll patch her up and bring her back here in a few days. I'm afraid she'll need to rest for a bit after I fix her."

The child bit her lip, obviously loathe to be parted from the doll for so long, but then nodded. "Thank you, Potter."

He reached out and ruffled her hair gently. "You're quite welcome, Sissy. Off with you, now. I need to get home."

The children ran off, and he knelt there for a moment, cradling the doll and looking fondly after them. He'd thought to have children of his own, once.

He shoved the thought ruthlessly away, as always, as he placed the doll gently into his basket. He was content with his life – there was a time when he'd not dared hope even for that much.

He groaned, belatedly recalling his trick knee as it buckled beneath him when he tried to rise. He'd injured it, during the war, and it had never healed quite right. He caught himself on one hand with the ease of long practice and thought wistfully of the elaborately carved walking stick he'd left propped by his bed. He hadn't needed it in weeks, and had disdained it today in a fit of vanity.

He sighed. Served him right. He'd rather thought he'd left his vanity behind with the rest of his past. _Apparently not_. He contemplated his options. He could sit here until his knee decided to cooperate or someone took pity on him. He could drag himself to that tree over there, where he could probably manage to leverage himself up. He could swallow the battered remnants of his pride and call out for help. He could…

In the end, he didn't have to do any of those things. A hand appeared in his field of vision. A very familiar calloused hand. Draco blinked. The hand was still there. He reached out wordlessly and clasped it, was pulled smoothly and seemingly effortlessly to his feet. He raised his eyes slowly to meet guarded and achingly familiar green ones.

"Potter." He rasped. "I – thank you."

Potter smirked.

"Funny, I could have sworn I heard those kids call _you_ 'Potter.'"

Draco felt himself blush.

"I didn't – Merlin, Harry, I didn't ask them to."

"Oh?"

"I'm a potter."

Harry snorted. "Really? Only I thought you were a Malfoy." Draco felt his insides churn. He'd left that name behind years ago.

"No – I – it's Draco," he said, suddenly shy. "And I work with clay. Ceramics, you know. Hence 'Potter.' I… I'm good at it. And I like working with my hands."

Harry turned Draco's hand over, gently brushing the pad of his thumb along the callouses and seams, and smiled. A slow, suggestive smile that turned Draco's insides to mush. "They're lovely hands," he said softly, "Draco."

Then Harry tugged on his hand, pulling Draco flush against him. He paused, studying him, giving him a chance to pull away. But Draco didn't want to pull away; could think of nothing he wanted less, in fact. He licked suddenly dry lips, and Harry's eyes tracked the motion of his tongue. And then Harry's mouth was on his, and Draco didn't care that they were standing in the middle of the road and he needed to get home and make dinner – he had been waiting nearly a decade for this kiss. Dinner could wait.

In the end, Harry insisted on walking him home, and they made dinner together. Draco was embarrassed at his tiny cottage; the simple meal he laid out. But Potter seemed at home, in a way Draco had never seen him. He explained, haltingly at first, but then with more enthusiasm as Draco listened, raptly, that he'd left Hogwarts to find himself, much like Draco had done – they'd even been to some of the same places, just at different times.

"And?" Draco asked, when Harry fell silent.

"And what?"

"Did you find yourself?"

Harry smiled at him, with a warmth that made Draco's heart ache. "I have now."

~The End~


End file.
